


Midnight Shakes the Memory

by foxontherun



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Hannibal, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Oral Sex, Smut, Top Will, Vulnerable Hannibal, mischa feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2015-06-19
Packaged: 2018-01-24 16:01:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1611047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxontherun/pseuds/foxontherun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An old patient and colleague of Hannibal's escapes from the Baltimore State Hospital of the Criminally Insane and decides to re-introduce Hannibal to his humanity. Cue Hannibal having a drug-induced breakdown and needing Will to help being him back from the edge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The world needs more Bottom!Hanni and I need more hurt/comfort in my life.

Hannibal got the phone call while on his way back to his car from a shopping trip. Laden down with bags containing jamon serrano, guava paste, organic artichokes, lardo, and several other ingredients for his dinner, he shifted the bags to one hand and pulled out his phone with the other, realizing there was no graceful way for him to unlock the car while juggling so many packages at once. Instead, he stood patiently in the cold, with the phone to his ear, and listened while Jack Crawford explained to him, sounding unusually harried, that Doctor Sheldon DuVall had somehow managed to escape from custody while being transferred upstate to a new psychiatric hospital.

 

"How unfortunate," Hannibal frowned. "Sheldon is a dangerous man to be out in the general public."

Jack sighed. "Well you would know that as well as anyone," he said. "Your testimony helped get him a life sentence."

"Mine along with many others," Hannibal noted. "He had devolved into complete psychosis by the time he was captured. No longer the friend and colleague many of us had known."

"I'm calling as a general warning," Jack said, "Sheldon might consider you a target. You were instrumental in his capture and imprisonment, as well as being his psychiatrist."

"It has been many years since I last visited and spoke with him," Hannibal replied, and then, "he expressed strong feelings of bepaetrayal," he mused. "But he was deep into a paranoid episode. His treatment may have progressed since then. I have not followed his case for some time."

"Well," Jack said, "If you'd like a police escort we can arrange one for you. It's your call."

"I believe there is minimal danger," Hannibal replied. "Though I thank you for your concern."

"Just keep an eye out," Jack said gruffly. "We've thrown a lot of manpower into catching him, but be alert. He's an intelligent, resourceful psychopath."

"I know the type," Hannibal said, and hung up the phone.

 

It was a little inconvenient, Hannibal thought to himself, to have to factor this new threat into his plans. Of course, DuVall may have forgotten him entirely, but that was more than unlikely. Hannibal was not a forgettable man, and less a forgettable therapist. And Sheldon had been a mildly interesting case, though nothing earth shattering. He wasn't the first doctor to wholly embrace the God complex to the point of mania, but he went after it with singular determination, killings that were macabre paeans to the transformative nature of healing. Grim tableaux where the healer doubled as his own patient, leaving more and more of himself at each scene. When Sheldon was arrested he was missing three fingers, his left eye, both ears, and both testicles, raving about the ongoing infinite coil of mortality. Hannibal had watched him deteriorate with a vague sort of academic regard, pushing his buttons when he felt like it would provoke the most fruitful response. Sheldon gifted him one of his own ears, and, with a knowing glance, suggested he add it to his dinner menu. This was when Hannibal had reported him to the FBI. Sheldon may have been mad, but he was also a gifted, insightful man with many years of experience as a doctor and psychiatrist. He knew too much.

 

This was not an opportune moment for Hannibal. His intricate plans for Will were yielding such satisfying responses. He wanted to bask in the sheer satisfaction of seeing his masterpiece, the wholly unique and inexpressably beautiful creature that Will Graham had become. He wanted to revel in it - the only man on earth he could truly consider not only his equal, but perhaps his superior. Will was a being both sublime and dangerous - a combination that left Hannibal feeling breathless in awe. He was falling close to infatuation, but he found he couldn't take a step back. He'd always been one to give in to his sensual side. He wanted to consume Will Graham. To mingle with him in the bliss of their becoming. He didn't have time for Sheldon DuVall and his petty revenge.

 

Unfortunately for Hannibal, DuVall had nothing but time in the intervening years to think of nothing but his revenge. Hannibal had been his soul-mate. The only man who had truly seen the complete divinity of his plan. He had loved Hannibal with all the grace that a God holds for it's most perfect instruments. And Hannibal had taken that love and warped it - turned it into something shrieking and ugly and inhuman. Hannibal wasn't a man, Sheldon had come to realize. His humanity had left him like a wisp of body heat.

 

So he knew what he had to do. He had to tame the devil. Bring the humanity back to Hannibal's soul. Hannibal would ultimately thank him for it. On his knees, as a supplicant would. Because he would realize that no one had the power to create humanity but God. And Sheldon would let him cry with the beauty of it, before he killed him.


	2. Chapter 2

Hannibal returns to consciousness, and makes a series of rapid-fire deductions, neurons crackling like distant gunfire. It is cold in the basement where he's being held, and he has to hold himself very still to keep from shivering. He doesn't want to give DuVall the satisfaction. He feels a momentary glimmer of anger at himself for allowing his capture so easily. Not that he's worried - DuVall isn't nearly advanced enough to pose any kind of a threat, but his captivity, in this delicate moment in time, is an inconvenience. He suspects Will is going to try to use it against him - it's what he himself would do - and he hasn't prepared for this contingency in the complicated warp and weft of his plans. He wonders briefly how long it will be until someone finds his upturned grocery bags beside his abandoned car and puts two and two together. He gives Will Graham no more than two days before he figures out where Hannibal is being kept. DuVall, despite his triteness and self-indulgence, has a blunt kind of cleverness, but it is nothing compared to Will. _He_ is nothing compared to Will. Hannibal will be found, sooner rather than later, and hopefully before any lasting damage can be done. He doesn't think DuVall intends his death, but at the same time the man is dangerously unhinged and not entirely invested in keeping Hannibal alive, either. How utterly pointless if Hannibal were to die as the result of some accident or neglect. That is not how he intends to leave this world.

He is in some kind of basement, windowless, with air that manages to be both stifling and freezing at once. He closes his eyes for a moment, testing the strength of the zip-ties that bind his hands and feet. They hold, tied so tightly that Hannibal has already lost feeling in his fingertips. He will not escape the traditional way, that much is certain. He weighs the pros and cons of allowing Will Graham to save him. He has no doubt he could talk himself out of the situation he's found himself in, he's talked himself out of worse, but perhaps allowing Will to believe he has the upper hand possesses some value. Hannibal is still pondering this when he hears the clunk of a lock being disengaged.

 

Duvall looks something like a mall santa, albeit with more intelligence in the crinkle of his eyes. He has clearly used his time incarcerated to build up some muscle-mass. Hannibal is not a small man and he knows far too well the strength needed to carry dead weight. Duvall approaches him, hands tucked into his pockets, and favors him with a genial smile.

 

"Hello Sheldon," Lecter says, dipping his head in the closest approximation of a nod he can manage.

 

"Hannibal," Duvall murmurs, drawing closer. The whites of his eyes look yellowish in the dim light of the basement. He kneels before Hannibal, a safe distance away. "It's good to see you, my old friend."

 

He doesn't sneer around the word 'friend,' sounding genuinely happy to have Hannibal with him. Hannibal supposes he must be. Happy. In some way.

 

"And you," Hannibal replies, not to be outdone in this parody of a reunion scene that's playing out.

 

Duvall sighs and rocks back onto his heels, his eyes flitting skittishly around the room, though there's nothing there save for Hannibal and a few cardboard boxes.

 

"I have a great gift for you, old friend," he says, his eyes returning to Hannibal's face and sweeping down the length of his trussed-up form.

 

"The last time I saw you, you weren't feeling so generously towards me," Hannibal notes, scanning Duvall's body language, his posture. Clearly the man has something planned - torture of some kind, retribution for his long stay at the Baltimore Hospital for the criminally insane.

 

"Ah, well, bygones and all that," Duvall chirps, grinning and standing up to look down at Hannibal from a height.

 

"Why give me a gift?" Hannibal asks. "Why was it necessary to spirit me away like this? You could have disappeared. Started your work over someplace new."

 

"I always considered us to have unfinished business," Duval says, waving a dismissive hand. "Consider this a homecoming present."

 

Before Hannibal can react, Duvall reaches down and injects him with the syringe he's had stashed in his pocket. He depresses the plunger and gazes at Hannibal, breathless, smiling beatifically, grotesquely. He kneels back down before Hannibal once more.

 

"What was in that syringe, Sheldon?" Hannibal asks calmly, fixing the man with his eyes. He refuses to let himself be worried by this. Whatever it is, he can ride it out. Will will find him.

 

"Only you, Hannibal," Duvall says sweetly, heading for the door once more. "It's only you."

 

Hannibal feels his body dropping, falling, the sensation sudden and immediate. He fights to tamp down a groan, watching the shadows crawl up the walls and branches, impossibly big, start to grow, steeping the room in shadow. Hannibal is a tiny presence in an immense, cold forest. He shakes his head. Snow begins to fall.

 

And Hannibal, young and afraid, begins to moan.


	3. Chapter 3

Will is sitting in Hannibal's waiting room, frowning at his watch, which says 7:32, when he gets the call. Jack sounds tense - Will can hear it in his voice right off the bat.

"Will, we need you in on something," Jack says. 

"Jack…" Will's voice trails off. "What is it, Jack?"

"It's Hannibal." Jack pauses, and Will feels a dip of fear in his stomach. Hannibal is two minutes late for their appointment. Meticulous man that he is, he always opens his office door at 7:30 on the dot.

"What's happened, Jack?" Will barks out, tension starting to chip away at his patience. There's a pause, and Jack sighs.

"We think he's been kidnapped," he states, almost reluctantly, and Will is distantly aware of standing up, of pacing to the door of Hannibal's office and trying the handle. It's locked. He lets out a breath, the fear that he's been nursing since this phonecall began spilling over into his conscious mind. His hands are clenched at his sides. He can't even bring himself to be disgusted by the wave of concern that crashes through him for Hannibal, for his friend. He grimaces. _Through the rabbit-hole now, Will my boy_. His father's voice echoes bizarrely in his head. 

"Jack," he says carefully, "you need to tell me exactly what is going on."

Jack tells him that they found Hannibal's car abandoned in the parking lot near one of the cities many Sunday open-air markets. That there were no signs of a struggle except for two upturned grocery bags in the street, spilling their contents wetly on the ground, flies swarming in a shimmering blanket over the remains of a leg of lamb, a few duck breasts. Will can see it with astonishing clarity - the refurbished red brick of a row of artist's studios adjacent to a long flat block of asphalt. Hannibal's car door open, the leather warm and soft-smelling in the sun. A flash of orange persimmons, picked over by rats and insects. And a black void in the center of it all, where Hannibal should be. Jack gives him the address of the scene, and Will's keys are in the ignition before he punches his phone off and throws it, hard, into the back seat and just sits, chest heaving with the force of his breaths, trying to control himself, trying not to give in to the sick well of terror that he feels threatening to eat him up.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Standing next to Hannibal's Bentley, Jack stands with hat in hand, talking quietly with a CSU tech, until he spots Will, and motions him over.

"Nothing new," he says, to forestall Will's questions, and waves the tech off. "The man's name is Sheldon DuVall. Shares a similar profile to Hannibal, as it happens. Former thoracic surgeon, made the switch to psychiatry in '03. Convicted in '07 of multiple homicides. His MO was to dismember his victims and take body parts with him - leaving his own in their place. He was caught fairly quickly, as you'd imagine." Jack shakes his head. "Hannibal Lecter was his psychiatrist. I wasn't involved with the case, but Hannibal's testimony helped ensure a life stay in the BSHCI instead of the death penalty. I guess he wasn't as thankful as he should have been." He hands Will a thick stack of files. "This is everything we have on him to-date, including Dr. Chilton's notes from his treatment during the last few years of his incarceration." Jack scans Will's face, not bothering to disguise how troubled he is by what he must find there. "Will, I need you to have your head on straight about this," he says. "Don't let your feelings about Hannibal Lecter get in the way of good sense." He turns to shepherd the rest of the CSU techs from the scene. "I don't want Hannibal to die at the hands of some psychopath," he shoots over his shoulder. "I want to deal with him myself."

Will ignores him, as he ignores the rest of the general buzzing of the techs leaving the scene, as he closes his eyes. He doesn't have as much experience reading a scene without a body, but there is enough memory lingering here, filtering through the sunlight and absorbed by the very air around him, that, after a beat, the pendulum swings, and he _sees_.

_I've planned this moment for years. Through the haze of drugs that bastard Chilton insists on pumping through my bloodstream, through the bars of my cage, through the cage of my mind, I've planned, and I've waited. I've never been a very patient man, but for this…for this it's all going to be worth those days when my head is screaming for the need to show him, to teach him how cruelly Gods can reward their creations for their perfidy. I've been disciplined, shaping my body in the same way that he shaped my mind, honing my senses to be better, stronger, faster. I'll need it. I'm not fool enough to miss-value him. He's a predator, but I, I am more than that. I am the divine light. I am the cruelty and emptiness of the universe. I am the creator, and he will soon know the strength of my resolve. After I escape, it isn't easy to track him down. He's still in the same house where we used to dine together, meals crafted as painstakingly as jewels, laughing with Baltimore social register-types. He drives the same car, same office space, check, check. I visit several fancy wine boutiques, specialty food stores, and watch the crowd departing after last week's performance of Don Giovanni at the opera house. I use high powered binoculars to track what time he leaves his office every day. He doesn't suspect a thing. He won't, until it's too late. Finally I manage to catch him alone, skirting along the edges of the art studios outside the Baltimore Summer Market. There's no one around, and his back is turned as he hangs up his phone. I'm utterly silent as I get behind him, injecting him in the neck with a syringe-ful of etorphine hydrochloride. He's out so instantaneously that he doesn't make a sound. His eyes only widen slightly as he swings around. I have him. I have him. My power is absolute. And so is my rage. He will know so much pain. Pain is the only thing any of them know, in the end. I am the only one who truly knows anything more. I am vengeance and power and life. This is my design._

Will finds himself on his knees, when he returns back to the world. He's shaking like a swimmer resurfacing from cold, unknown depths. His eyes and face are burn. He can feel the last vestiges of sick triumph fade from him. Creation, he thinks. That's the key here. That's how Hannibal is going to get found. But it will have to be soon. DuVall may not want Hannibal to die, but he's too blurred around the edges to be careful, now that he has his quarry. He might kill Hannibal by mistake. Will runs a hand over his sweaty forehead. There will be pain, he knows. Hannibal may not die, but he'll want to. 


End file.
